


Sonnet XVII

by casterlyqueen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Targister Month, targister
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 03:11:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1728866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casterlyqueen/pseuds/casterlyqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.<br/>I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sonnet XVII

**Author's Note:**

> AU: where daenerys does indeed join forces with Robb Stark, and winds up falling for the man he has held prisoner.

> “I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,  
>  or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.  
>  I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,  
>  in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
> 
> I love you as the plant that never blooms  
>  but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;  
>  thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,  
>  risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
> 
> I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.  
>  I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;  
>  so I love you because I know no other way
> 
> than this: where I does not exist, nor you,  
>  so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,  
>  so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. “
> 
> \- Pablo Neruda

The rains had stopped them. The company of men no longer able to move forward. The soaked and soggy ground, caused their wagons to stick in the Riverlands mud. No use in pressing on, they have to wait until the rains passed and the ground dried.

Daenerys was far from heart broken. She found her urgency to march south towards the Twins sapping from her bones every night she spent with her new lover. She was with him now, curled around him, pressing into him as if they were one body and not two. He had fucked her until she had to muffle his screams about her shoulder lest anyone should hear and come see. Lest anyone should catch the silver queen fucking the Kingslayer. No one would understand. She didn’t understand it.

She had come across the Narrow Sea to help Robb Stark. Lady Catelyn hadn’t left Astapor until Daenerys agreed to join her. To bring her army, and her dragons to aid the North’s quest for independence. Jorah had bristled at the notion of helping Ned Stark’s son, as Dany had, but Catelyn was convincing and the call of home had been too great.

When she first got here she had only taken the lion of Lannister into her care because it seemed at any moment the Northerners would kill him. And so Daenerys had found herself often in the company of the man who had killed her father. A man she should hate. A man she started to want for all the wrong reasons. His flashing smile and bold arrogance. His undeniable strength even though he wore chains, those were not traits that should have stirred her blood and yet it did.

One day she had gone in to smack that smug smirk right off his face, and stuck her hand too close the lion. Rather than biting it off, or dragging her in and killing her the two had fucked. Rough, and hard, her hands fisting in his hair as his hips had thrust into her at a frantic pace. There was nothing slow and tender about the first time they fucked. Just a heart-hammering need to join their bodies, to push for pleasure with each other. He had seemed as angry with her as she had been with herself as he thrust into her over and over. Dirty hands buried in her silver locks as his kisses bruised her lips.

She had told herself it would be just that one time.

What a liar she had proven to be.

\- - - -

 

Her fingers brushed across the golden expanse of his chest. Soft ivory digits exploring every scar they could find. She brushed them with her fingertips, soft and gentle against his warm flesh. It was a form of worship as it were. Thankful, grateful and of course Daenerys was in awe of her golden warrior. Jaime Lannister, was a marvel. With his golden hair, his laughing green eyes, and mischievous smile; he the most handsome man she had ever met. He was a work of art, wrought from flesh, and muscle and bone.

She didn’t know how or when she had fallen in love with him, but as foolish as it was - she had. Hard and completely. Despite it being such a danger. Despite never knowing if he wouldn’t leave her at the first chance he got. Despite the fact that it could cost her everything here she was.

Daenerys tucked her head to his shoulder, fingers brushing along a scar that ran along his chest, just under his nipple. Jaime lifted a hand, trapping her own his chest.

“That tickles.” His voice was rough as if her light touches had just woken him from a slumber.

“I thought you were sleeping.” she whispered. Daenerys kept her voice soft, she didn’t want to break the spell just yet. She didn’t want to rise from his arms and return to being a queen. She wanted to lie here with him and be a woman. To not have to worry about the battle, or how risky “How did you get that scar?”

Jaime lifted his head, glancing down at the scar, “I don’t know.”

“How about this one?” she asked, her hand brushed over to a scar underneath his arm.

“I don’t know.” Jaime chuckled, he rolled her over his lips covering hers. “You sure are curious tonight, Your Grace.” His lips moved along her jaw, beard brushing against tender skin. He sat up, the black furs falling off his body, one hand reached up and pulled the furs away from her as well. Green eyes roamed the expanse of her pale body. He looked hungry and yet he didn’t lean down to take a rosy nipple into his mouth, instead his fingers found a scar along her side. He brushed a hand, calloused from years and years of sword play, along her tender and soft skin. “How did you get that scar?”

She rolled her lips together, and shifted underneath him. Daenerys didn’t wish to talk about it. Scars on women were never trophies of surviving a glorious battle. They were reminders of a different type of battle all together. Silent ones that even if you won them, you always seemed to lose.

Jaime’s face darkened, like clouds before a storm. There was something dangerous there now, any other day that look thrilled her. The same way that a thunderstorm would thrill her. Her heart would race, and she would embrace the storm, letting the wind tangle her hair and he rain wet her body. Right now that look was not for her. Right now that look was for someone else. A man already dead.

“ _Who_ gave you that scar?” he snarled. Rage written across his handsome features. As if he himself would find the man, strangle the life out of him.

Dany reached up her hands brushing along his face, as if to stroke the rage right out of him. Her hands brushed into golden hair. “It doesn’t matter. He is dead, and I am alive. Can’t we leave it at that?”

“Viserys.” he growled. An angry lion, looking to maim and kill.

She drew Jaime down, her lips brushing against his. “He is dead. All the pain he gave to me Khal Drogo returned to him tenfold in his death.” She whispered. “Let the dead rest in peace Jaime, they can’t hurt us any longer. Not my brother, and not my father.”

Jaime stiffened in her arms for a moment before his body sank against hers. His nose brushed against the pulse at her neck making it race. He nuzzled her there for a moment his body resting against hers like a solid weight there against her. Her shield from the world.

“I hate you for forgiving me when the rest of the world will not.” He murmured. It didn’t sound as though he hated her. “Of all people you should hold me in the most contempt and yet you do not. I hate you. I hate your forgiveness. Your cleverness. Your wit. Your beauty. I hate the way you feel beneath me. I hate the way your lips taste, and the way your heart beat soothes me to sleep. I hate you.” He murmured. His words were softer than the patter of the rain against the canvas of the tent. His lips brushed the beat of her pulse, her collar bones, her breast.

“No, you don’t.” she whispered. She turned her head, lips brushing against his head. Her words were certain and soft. Confident, as though she knew the truth of what lie in his heart, that she could trust that over his words.

“I don’t.” He agreed. He lifted his head and claimed her lips. “And I hate you for that most of all.” 


End file.
